


How To Breathe

by alicekittridge



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Future, POV Second Person, Past Tense, Pining, Probably will be more explicit later hence the rating, Sexual Content, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-01 16:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16769122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: "Are you sad I'm not your main job anymore?""Who said you ever quit being that?"--Villanelle has ghosts. Some are more present.





	1. Following the Path

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my incessant need to write something in second person again and various episode re-watches (and maybe melancholy Spotify playlists). I do apologize if this is a little too melancholy and not entirely to everyone's tastes. Thank you, as always, for reading and for your comments xx 
> 
> This work takes place in 2019.

You were lying in bed—a hotel bed, the mattress a pillowtop king—and morning’s blue light was peeking through the crack in the curtains. A warm arm was flung over your waist and for a moment you believed it was Eve’s, even though she wouldn’t do such a thing, before you remembered where you were. The arm belonged to Caroline Lowell. A cellist in the London Symphony Orchestra, she was in Geneva for a friend’s wedding. You met her the day after the event, at a gallery, where she talked to you rather openly about her work and where she was and why she was there.

“It’s pretentious, I know,” she’d said, “but looking at the art calms me down.”

You’d invited her for a drink, which then turned into dinner, and then back to your hotel room where her confidence melted into neediness.

“Been a while?” you’d asked, when she was naked and breathless underneath you, and she’d nodded. Someone like her, rehearsing for performances for many hours a week, probably didn’t have much time outside of that for a social life or a sex life. But she was wonderful in bed, if a little gentle.

This morning, however, the warmth of the bed and the blue light reminded you of mornings with Anna, when you were awake hours before her. You’d listen to her breathe, watch her face as her expression changed with dreams. You’d done the same with Eve, but only when you’d snuck into her bedroom long after she’d fallen asleep; she hardly let you stay in her bed after sex. Slowly, you detached yourself from Caroline’s one-armed embrace and quietly searched the room for suitable running clothes and disappeared into the bathroom to tie up your hair. Anna was dead. Hopefully hanging out in that precious heaven she so believed in. You were pulling on tennis shoes when Caroline propped herself up on an elbow, dark hair sliding from her face to reveal her sleepy but fascinated expression.

“Goodness,” she said, voice not quite awake, “you’re glowing.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Caroline shook her head. _You didn’t,_ it said. You tied your shoes and pulled on a beanie, then went to her side of the bed, where you traced lines on her bare shoulder. “I’m going for a run,” you said. You didn’t feel like sending her away just yet. “You can stay, if you like. I’ll be back in an hour.” It was almost seven in the morning.

Outside, the air felt like spring. There was a certain bite to it, but a freshness also. March had begun just a week earlier, “a perfect time for a job in Geneva,” your handler, Oleg, had said. He was right, in that annoying way he sometimes was. Only brave tourists travelled here during the winter and spring months; most of them liked to come when the weather was warm. It being the off-season, the hotels weren’t crowded, and the city was populated by those who lived there, save the brave few tourists. You zipped your jacket up to your neck and started off, wearing no headphones, bearing no phone.

When the job was done and your mind was occupied and sex only worked for a handful of hours, running helped clear your thoughts. You concentrated on breathing, on your stride and your form, something that always had to be practiced even though, by now, you’d been running for years. It turned your mind into something one-tracked instead of wandering, which it had begun to do a lot lately. Mostly you thought of Eve, whom you haven’t seen in weeks. The last time you were in London was Valentine’s Day and you’d given her expensive chocolates and even more expensive wine to go with them, and a bedroom offer.

“Isn’t it what people normally do on Valentine’s Day?” you’d added, when Eve hadn’t said anything but “Thank you.”

“Well… that and dinner, I guess,” Eve had said at last. “But I’m busy, and I’d hate to keep you from work.”

“Oh Eve, if it’s you keeping me from work, it’s always a nice thing.”

So you’d done dinner and paid for everything, and then, just to keep you both from work a little longer, pushed her into her mattress but let her clamber on top of you.

Half an hour into your run, you rounded the corner into a little park and took a five-minute stretch break. Other runners were out too, bundled up much like you were, along with dog-walkers and people dressed for work. Eve would still be in London, you thought now, probably forcing herself out of bed to shower and dress and eat her toast with sunny-side-up eggs before making her sleepy way to the tube. Early bird she was not, and you found it endearing. Unlike Anna, who dreaded getting up early but was fine once she was awake, Eve was cranky until nine, which was when the coffee finally kicked in.

But if you were being honest, you didn’t know if Eve was still in London. Despite the setbacks and the secrets at her job—you were alive instead of dead; she was still demoted—things had, slowly, begun to look up for her. You’d kept track, but she also told you these things when she felt like it. She spent less time at her desk and more time outside, a little, wild-haired field mouse picking up legwork. “It’s not as boring as it could be,” she’d told you on Valentine’s Day.

“Are you sad I’m not your main job anymore?”

“Who said you ever quit being that?” And it’d made your chest clogged with tar.

For all you knew she could be outside the city. Surrey, maybe, or Brighton. Or in a different country.

Maybe I’ll call her, you thought, giving your calves one last stretch before you started off again. But later, when it was afternoon.

“Come in,” you said around your towel, and the bathroom door creaked open.

“Sorry,” said Caroline. “Need to fix my makeup.”

“Rehearsal?” The tub made a sucking sound, still draining.

“No, just breakfast. Rather inconvenient timing.”

You folded the towel around your hair to squeeze out the remaining water, catching Caroline’s eyes in the mirror. “You were hoping to spend time with me.”

“I was. I mean,” she was blushing now, “you’re a little strange sometimes, but I like you.”

_Strange._ The word stung, just a bit. Not as bad of a word as _psychopath_ , but Caroline didn’t know the real you. To her you were Lilja, a fashion designer hopeful who was training under some up-and-coming’s wing. You set the towel aside and combed out your hair while Caroline borrowed an eye pencil. You said, “Is my strangeness a bad thing?”

“No,” said Caroline, almost immediately. “No, not at all. I’m sorry; _fascinating_ would’ve been the better word. It’s like I dreamed you.”

You hummed, started to dress but left your sweater and bra on the counter, your desire for her reemerging. It was a soft kind, not the intense kind that came with being around Eve. You turned her around and kissed her and she sighed, a hand falling immediately onto your bare shoulder. “I’m afraid,” you said when she pulled back slightly, “that you won’t be able to stay for much longer.”

Caroline’s face turned slightly sad, but there was understanding too. “I didn’t think it would last, anyway.” She kissed you, and you let her drag her mouth down your neck until she found a nipple. You inhaled, pressed her against the counter, slid a hand into her pants.

“God,” Caroline said, “I might be late.”

“Only five minutes.” You slipped a finger inside her and she gasped. “It’s just breakfast.”

You took Caroline to lunch later that day and, before she left for good, fucked her for an hour. Afterwards, still naked and panting, you called Eve.

“Are you in London?” you asked, before she could say anything.

_“I… No,”_ Eve replied. _“No, I’m sitting in bed in Vienna. Are you running?”_

“Just got back from one. You’re in Vienna for work, then?”

_“Surprisingly. Carolyn’s extended my leash by a few inches.”_ You heard liquid pouring, maybe wine. _“This is the first work trip I’ve gotten to take in ages,”_ Eve said, sounding… sad? Disappointed? _“Are_ you _in London, Oksana? Hoping to run into me?”_

_You hoped to see me, didn’t you?_

_I’m always hoping that._

You tightened your grip on the phone. “No,” you said. “Wanted to know what you were doing.” There was silence, someone honking on Eve’s end. “Good day, Eve,” you said, and hung up.

—

Oleg was waiting for you when you got back to your new Paris apartment. He’d made himself coffee and was admiring the view from the sitting room window.

“I’ve always loved Paris’s views,” he said. “How was Geneva?”

“Long,” you replied, “but good. Quick death on the target’s part.”

Oleg pulled something from his suit jacket pocket and held it up to the light. A stack of bills. “I was asked to give you this.” He held it out to you and you accepted it wordlessly, though inside you were smiling. A bonus meant you were on the right track. “The next trip might be a little shorter. Less time to play around with vacationing cellists.”

“She wasn’t there on vacation,” you said.

“I admire your taste, Villanelle,” he said, moving to the kitchen to dump his coffee mug into the sink, “that’s all. Caroline Lowell is, as I understand it, a very kind woman.”

“Do you wish I was dating her?”

Oleg laughed. It was a big laugh, but not Konstantin’s guffaw. “I know you’re not the type.” He buttoned his suit jacket. Paris was cold in the emerging spring and yet he wore no coat, unless he’d left it in his car. “Before I leave, I should mention that Eve Polastri is in Vienna.”

You feigned a look of mild surprise. “Oh. Still keeping an eye on the cat out of the bag?”

“For caution’s sake.” He patted you on the shoulder as he went past, something he would do to a daughter. “You understand.”

When he was gone you unpacked your belongings, put clothes into the wash and, after taking a bath to cleanse yourself of the airplane scent, tracked Eve’s phone. Still in Vienna, downtown it looked like, probably eating dinner. On impulse, you texted her, _Do you like Vienna?_

It took only a minute for a response to come through. _It’s gorgeous but cold._

_Wait for the warmer months._

Vienna had a certain charm. You liked how colorful the buildings were and how, when you were high up, the different roofs resembled a rainbow whose colors had dropped from the sky with style in mind. Eve might like it too, and the gardens and the shopping and the restaurants whose views were sometimes of the sparkling river. For a moment you considered what kind of home she’d like: something in the city, nothing too big; somewhere she could keep all her books and spread her articles and maps out while she was working a case, or tracking you. But as beautiful as Vienna was, you thought that London ultimately suited Eve, with its unpredictable weather and splashes of green parks and monotony.

You asked her, _Would you want to live there, if you could live anywhere but London?_

The reply took a little longer. Was she with someone or by herself? _Probably not. My German’s shit._

_I could help you with it._

_I’d like to see you try._ You imagined her chuckling before she sent the reply.

_Get some of the ice cream,_ you said next. _You won’t regret it._ Unless, of course, she was one of those people who couldn’t eat ice cream in cold months.

Having nothing better to do and no new target, you shrugged on a parka and went out. Dinner was spent alone at an upscale seafood restaurant and afterwards you went to a bar that was frequented by higher-class people. It was warm and packed but you found a table near the back to nurse your champagne. You were debating whether it was a good idea to catch a flight to Vienna when a well-dressed man approached you and said, “Do you mind if I ask what you’re drinking?”

“Something you can’t afford,” you replied, in English, and he smiled. It was, you thought, a good smile, something someone who was more interested in men would find charming.

“You’re probably right.” He hesitated for a moment, looked over his shoulder at an older blonde woman who was talking animatedly with two other people. “Could I sit?”

“No.” You gestured to the woman behind him. “Who’s your friend?”

His face turned downwards, disappointed that you’d declined his offer and realizing that you weren’t interested in him. “That’s Sigrid,” he said. “She’s an art dealer. Would… Would you like me to introduce you?”

“Please.” You followed him to the table, keeping your champagne close. It took a moment for the man to get Sigrid’s attention but once he did, her eyes fell on you. They were a very bright blue, tiny glaciers around dark pupils. Her hair, though soft-looking, was almost windblown with how full it was.

“This is—” the man began, but paused. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Julie,” you said, sticking your hand towards Sigrid, who shook it. Her grip was firm.

“Sigrid.”

“I think she’s interested in what you do,” her friend said, and then excused himself to the bar after telling them he’d get something made with Bailey’s.

“You can sit with us for a while,” Sigrid said, gesturing to the table. You sat in the chair across from her and shook hands with the two other people there, Enja and Peter, who continued their conversation seconds after you let go of their hands. Sigrid asked, “You’re interested in my work?”

“Not really,” you said, sipping your champagne, and Sigrid’s face melted into recognition. She leaned closer to you, over the table, and said, “I like a bold woman.” She glanced at Enja and Peter, who were laughing about something, and then to the man that had introduced you, who was caught at the bar with a 20-something. “Can’t leave just yet.”

You talked about art for a while, what you were interested in, what you hated, who was overrated and who deserved more recognition. You never had much interest in art, didn’t really see why people enjoyed it, but could appreciate the colors someone used. Sigrid was talking about someone named Jean Caron and by the tone of her voice you guessed that she didn’t like him much.

“Oh, I _hate_ him,” you said.

“God, I know. Not his art,” Sigrid added with a wave of her hand, “but him. He’s one of those stuck-up elite types.”

You shook your head. “It’s always terrible when the art is beautiful but the person who made it is a complete ass.”

“It ruins everything,” Sigrid agreed. She downed the rest of her sparkling wine. Her friends were making their leave. They shook your hand again, said they hoped to see you around and that they were sorry for not involving themselves more in conversation. You assured them it was fine and returned the pleasantries, and finally you were alone. Silence settled over you and you realized that Sigrid reminded you of Katrina Petrov, just in the hair. Katrina’s eyes had been brown, lighter than Anna’s, but she was involved in art too, as far as you knew. While Sigrid found the rest of her belongings you drank the rest of your champagne, wondering when the specters would stop following you.

The night still young, you walked with Sigrid around the city, listening with half an ear about her work and what she was doing. She said she was visiting Paris, something she did every three months. She liked it but it wasn’t home.

“And where is home?” you asked.

“Reykjavik,” she replied.

“A lovely capital.”

“You’ve been?”

“Not yet. It’s on my bucket list.”

She had a pleased expression. It wasn’t entirely a lie; you’d never been to Iceland’s capital but had heard it described by Konstantin and other people. “Incredibly beautiful,” he’d said. “The landscapes are so unreal you’d think you’re on another planet.”

“Seems really cold,” you’d said, and he hummed.

“About as cold as Russia.”

But Russia was the coldest thing about your life.

You eventually led Sigrid back towards your apartment. You caught a cab and her curiosity hummed from a seat away. She’d obviously been with women before, based on her statement in the bar. Which was fine. A woman of her age—mid-forties—and social standing and profession had had to have a fair string of lovers. And though she wasn’t usually the kind of woman you went for there was something appealing about her.

You kissed her in the doorway of your apartment, something that surprised her, but she quickly regained her composure and buried her hands in your hair.

“Is your bedroom far?” she said.

“Someone’s eager.” You kissed up her jaw, sank your teeth into her earlobe. Then you took her hand and led her there. You didn’t notice the postcard sitting on your nightstand until forty minutes later. It made you pause, just for a moment, and Sigrid made a distressed sound, said, “Please…”

“Sorry,” you said, kissing her, sliding lower so you could let your mouth work in tandem with your hand. Eve never said please, never really asked nicely for anything; she demanded it, or told you to stay a certain way when it felt good. She was different than any woman you’ve slept with.

Your mind wandered while Sigrid mapped your skin with her mouth, and even though you knew Eve was all the way in Vienna you pretended it was her teasing your nipples, her fingers sliding gently inside you. You nearly said her name when you went over but managed to hold your tongue. Something like that would make Sigrid disappointed.

She left an hour later and, sated at last, you put on a silk robe and studied the postcard. It was from London and you felt exceptionally brighter. You looked up the train ticket first, already booked: first class, departure on 14 March at 2:30 PM. The target was a man and his wife, both in their forties and rather well-known politically. Doubles didn’t happen often. Someone had written on the back of the postcard _Make it quick._


	2. Darling, I'm Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a little more melancholy music. I understand second person may not be everyone's cuppa, but it's a POV I really enjoy writing in, especially for Villanelle. Thank you for sticking with this! 
> 
> \--  
> Content warning for this chapter: Some violence, and sex.

The café’s large windows were speckled with raindrops. The rain had stopped almost as soon as you’d stepped through its doors but people still carried umbrellas and walked in with squeaking shoes and wet clothes. You’d ordered coffee and a sandwich but hardly touched both, content to warm up and monitor the chatter of the husband-and-wife duo. Before coming here you’d followed them from their expensive apartment and to the shops, where you’d bluejacked both their phones and pretended to look at coats until they were out of sight. Even politicians needed new clothes.

You had the day to take them out. Maybe a day and a half, if things were to go off track. Anything over that and the pay would be less and there’d be no bonus. You were itching to get them alone, somewhere you could watch their lives drain in tandem, feel the sort of pleasure that existed only when you observed death. Afterwards you would go back to your hotel, have a bath, and see Eve, who’d returned from Vienna just three days ago.

Sometimes you tried to get Eve to talk about work, when she let you stay for a while. Just like she wanted to know everything about you, you wanted to know everything about her. You’d ask her what she was working on but she always gave short answers. “Domestic violence case.” “Apartment murder.” “Attempted assassination.” Never divulging more than that.

“Are they amateurs?” you’d asked once, in bed. “Is that why you’re not telling me?”

“Everyone’s an amateur compared to you.” She’d rolled onto her back, stretched her arms above her head with a sigh. Her voice had taken on a softer tone when she continued, “Work’s a private thing, for me. I can offer you glimpses but I don’t want you to pry.” She’d chuckled then. “I sound like a writer.”

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t like people reading their stuff while they’re working, especially if someone’s reading over their shoulder. It feels invasive to them.”

You’d thought of your very first days at the school with Anna, when she’d tried to monitor your progress on an assignment and you’d covered up your paper, told her, “It isn’t finished.” You supposed that was what it was like to be a writer, keeping people out until the draft was done. You’d said, “I guess that makes sense,” and reached over to trace lines between Eve’s breasts. Since then, you tried not to pry too much, but there was always a hope that Eve would tell you something more and that you would get to make smart remarks about the killers until she shoved you out of her office space.

The conversation between the couple moved from politics to more personal things. What were the plans for tonight? If there was nothing on the docket then it would be safe to go out for a little while, have some fun. The file that had been sent to you about the couple described them as _conservative but adventurous_ , and you found out about the adventurous part when you followed them to a club later. Surely things like this ended up in the news, but given their popularity and reputation it was likely someone made sure such stories didn’t stick around for long. They went their separate ways within minutes of entering and you lingered by the bar, hoping to catch the wife’s attention. She was brunette but her hair lacked volume and it was up in a bun, strands coming loose now that she was dancing in the crowd. You spotted the husband further away, talking to a small group of men, who had to lean within kissing distance to hear each other.

When the wife eventually came to the bar, she was out of breath and pink-cheeked, and sweat shone on her forehead and her exposed neck. She asked for a martini.

“That’ll make you thirstier,” you said, using an American accent.

“Water makes things less fun.” She took two sips, ate the olive. The rim of her glass was stained red. “And wouldn’t I look funny drinking water here?”

“You’d be surprised how many people don’t drink alcohol at these things.”

“You included?” she asked, her eyes falling on you properly. They gave you a brief once-over and when they landed back on your face you knew she was interested.

You smiled. “Had an early start.”

You bought her next drink and champagne for yourself. You told her, “You’re a decent dancer.”

“It’s more like rhythmic twitching. My husband’s the dancer.”

You pulled your face into a disappointed look. “Oh.”

“Hey,” she said, “I may be married but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t… thinking of inviting you back.” She smiled around her glass. “But not before I see how you perform.”

It was simple. You let her lead you to the dance floor, into the hot crowd. This kind of dancing was one you didn’t necessarily like to do, but there were worse ones. At the beginning of everything, perhaps close to a year after you’d been rescued from the women’s hellhole, in an attempt to get you attuned to culture Konstantin had signed you up for dance classes, where you’d learned waltzes and two-steps and line dancing, among more contemporary ones. You hated it all. It’d taken many weeks of practice for the rhythm to finally stick, something that hadn’t come naturally like the rhythm of sex or killing had.

“Do you feel a little more immersed, Villanelle?” he’d asked after the last class. You were still getting used to the new name.

“I feel that it wasn’t necessary.”

“You may feel that way now, but you’ll thank me later.” And you had, for those classes had helped you become attuned to a room’s atmosphere, had helped with how to blend in at different events where dancing was involved.

“You’re not enjoying this, are you?” the woman said.

“I’m not much of a dancer, Vanessa.” You pulled her closer by the waist and kissed her. You kept your eyes open, looking for the husband, spotting him at the bar and staring at the two of you.

An hour later, at a little after eleven, you were in their apartment. The husband, David, was in the kitchen making nightcap drinks and you were in the isolated bedroom, Vanessa’s mouth pressing eagerly back against your own. You spotted a record player sitting on a bookshelf and you murmured, “Put a record on and wait for me.”

“Okay,” she said, breathless, excited, and pulled away. You left the bedroom but stood outside it until Vanessa chose something and turned the volume up. Then you made your way to the kitchen, pausing by the knives, running your fingers quickly over the handles before choosing one. You hid it behind your back.

“Almost done with those?” you asked, tiptoeing closer to David, whose back was to you, oblivious.

“Sorry,” he said, a half-laugh, “Vanessa likes mixers when we have drinks at home.”

“She did have two and a half martinis.” And, quickly, you grabbed him, free hand clamping down over his mouth, the other coming up and slitting his throat with the knife. You stepped away but lowered him gently to the ground so that Vanessa wouldn’t hear a crash. Jazz floated from the bedroom and mixed with David’s wet, sucking gasps, accompanying his desperate flailing. You watched every moment, enchanted, exhilaration flooding through you. You were almost breathless when he finally stilled. Only fifteen minutes had passed. You put the bloody knife into the sink and quickly cleaned your hands.

You took the drinks back to the bedroom. Vanessa had undressed but not fully, waiting for you on the king-size bed.

“Having fun with David?” she asked, accepting her drink.

“He’s in the bathroom,” you said, “but we did kiss once.”

“And?”

“Yours are better.”

Vanessa hummed, set her drink aside. You put yours on the floor and walked to her, kissing her, pushing her back onto the bed so you could lie on top of her. The exhilaration from earlier was there but it’d made something bloom too, and though Vanessa wasn’t entirely your type you were enjoying seducing her, making her moan. You slipped your hand into her underwear and then fingers inside her and stayed like that for a minute, building the rhythm. You wrapped a hand around her throat and her eyes widened.

“Wait,” she gasped.

“Hmm?”

“Ties. I… I like ties for that.”

You kissed her, pulled out. “Unexpected,” you whispered, and she laughed nervously.

You strangled her with it, but after you’d made her orgasm. It was only courteous.

—

The sun struggled to peek through the clouds the next morning. The bathroom kept rotating between shadowy and bright, as if this were a set and the lighting technician was trying to get the light right. You were in the bath, soaking away ten hours of sleep, fingers tracing the scar on your abdomen while you replayed last night. David’s wet gasps while a lake of red formed around his head. Vanessa’s struggle once she realized what you were doing. Her wide eyes. It had been exhilarating then but now all it offered was an eager desire for the next one. You sank lower into the large tub until you could put your head under. Below the surface you heard your heart and the creaking of the tub and pipes, only the first beating at regular intervals. You could hold your breath for a long time now—almost three minutes. It hadn’t been that way at first. Your lungs untrained, they began burning at twenty-five seconds, screamed at forty, and blackness crawled across your vision at fifty-five. The bastard who’d taught you to swim and to breathe and not to breathe was Leonid, a former spy and once-Olympic hopeful. He’d pull you from the pool, cold and spluttering, your classmates (as you’d called them) not in much better shape.

“Not good enough,” he’d said. Lying on the old tiles, he towered over you. “You’ll come up for air not a minute after you’ve escaped your pursuers and then your head will be shot through.” He’d straightened so he could address the class. “What do we call a spy who can’t swim?”

“A dead one,” echoed fifteen tired voices.

You emerged after three minutes, gulping in air. You hated Leonid’s lessons but enjoyed the swimming as you’d learned to enjoy the running. And they were useful lessons, ones you’ve had to use every so often on the job. You’d even had to use them after you’d stumbled away from your old apartment, trying to breathe deeply through the white-pain of being stabbed while blood leaked warmly through your fingers.

“You were useful after all, Leonid,” you said, and plucked the drain.

That afternoon you posted yourself at a café just down the street from Thames House. You’d hardly gone in here as yourself. Usually you wore wigs or a baseball cap or a beanie but today you wore nothing, just your expensive clothes and a light down jacket. Eve frequented this café on lunch break and though you weren’t hoping to catch her attention you were hoping to just glimpse her. It’d been a month, after all. You wondered what she would be angrier about, you being this close to her place of work or the fact that you were gone without a hint of where you were. It occurred to you then that you should’ve bought her something in Geneva, a stupid souvenir or Swiss chocolate or a perfume but it’d slipped your mind. She at least liked a hint of where you’d been, just so she knew you were alive and not rotting away somewhere.

“I think you miss me sometimes,” you’d said a month ago. “Is that why you like to know where I am?”

“I need to know you’re alive,” she’d replied, and it was more of an answer than she knew. You’d kissed her, slipped back inside her and met her “Jesus” with a moan. “Don’t be gentle,” she’d said.

I’m alive, Eve, you thought, watching the door. You’ll see.

She came in about fifteen minutes later, her hair windblown, looking out of breath. Her clothes were her usual drab things except for the coat, a navy one you’d bought her six months ago from your favorite designer store in Paris. You smiled at the sight of it on her; it fit as you knew it would. And the color made her hair inky. You imagined her early this morning, standing at her wardrobe flicking through the coats until she found this one, studying it for a moment before saying “Jesus… Fuck it” and plucking it from its hanger. Instead of pumps she wore an old pair of heeled boots, which click-clacked when she walked up to the counter to place her order. She was distracted, based on the mask she wore, thinking of a case, or perhaps the news that’d broken just an hour ago about David and Vanessa. Maybe she was wondering if it was you and was thinking of how best to ask you, or where you were, if you were in London.

“Over here, Eve,” you wanted to say. “Have lunch with me.”

“It was you,” she’d say, not even beating around the bush.

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“It would be right of me to. Why are you this close to Thames House? You shouldn’t be here…”

You turned your back to her just as she shuffled to the dessert case. Three minutes passed, then four, then the man behind the counter called “217” and she took her lunch and click-clacked back out the café. You watched her stroll by the window, a brief glimpse of blue confidence, and then she was gone.

The rest of the afternoon you spent close to your hotel, browsing the shops to give your mind something to do. You were thinking of what Eve had told you last month and regretting you hadn’t sent her anything and so you wandered into a perfume store in search of one that would make it up to her. She’d apply this to her pulse points and you would taste it and it would be sweated onto your skin while you were in bed with her, staying there until you washed it off. You thought you’d get her something floral. It was almost the season for it. Nothing too bright, but nothing too masculine, either. You shuffled through many perfumes: _Orange Daisy, Pleasant Poppy, Midnight Garden_. The latter was a good one, but you thought it had too much musk. You tried the next one, _English Rose_ , and found it fit. Eve had thorns. You just had to know how to handle her so she wouldn’t prick you.

Evening rolled around and you called your handler to tell him you would be in London for another two days. He approved the extension, said the payment was transferred to your account. Then you called Eve.

“Are you home?” you said when she answered.

_“For once. Where are you?”_

You hung up. You zipped your jacket and the cab rounded the corner, pulling up to Eve’s apartment complex a minute later. You grabbed the small bag with the perfume inside, paid him, and left the warm interior.

Eve was slightly surprised when she opened her door. She stood there, arms crossed over her chest, studying you. Then, “Courteous of you to call before showing up.” She invited you in and you immediately smelled butter and cinnamon.

“I didn’t want to surprise you to death.” You folded the bag and tucked it into your pocket.

“What’s that?”

“Something for later. Are you making something?”

It was freshly-baked cinnamon bread, cooling off in its loaf pan. Eve scooted it further up the stove and said, “I’d offer you a slice but it’s hot.”

“You can give me wine, then.”

“I’ve got something better.”

“Oh, did you get a raise?”

“I wish. I splurged.” The bottle she pulled from the fridge was green, looking like one you’d had in your own fridge. She poured you a glass and on first taste it was a cheaper kind.

“I was worried you stole this from me,” you said.

“You’d kill me if I did.”

“I wouldn’t kill you for that.”

“Just for stabbing you.”

You sighed. “We’ve been over this already, Eve. I don’t want to kill you anymore.” She nodded, eventually. She always had that under-surface anxiety, that what you felt now wouldn’t be there one day, and you would actually slip a knife into her ribs or strangle her with a scarf or a belt or your own hands. You’d tried to explain the logic behind this but found it damn impossible. “I don’t know, Eve,” you’d said. “I know I don’t want to hurt you.”

Eve put foil over the bread and joined you at the table. She asked, “Where were you?”

“Paris, for a while,” you replied, setting your glass aside. “Then Rome, then Cardiff. Geneva, most recently. I was there when you were in Vienna.”

“And the politicians today?”

“Mm-hmm. Don’t worry,” you added, “I killed Vanessa nicely.”

“Strangulation doesn’t sound like you.”

“Not _dramatique_ enough?” She rolled her eyes and you smiled. “I was told to do it quick.”

“Did you seduce her?” Eve asked.

“Jealous?”

“Did you?”

“Yes,” you said. “It was a good way to get her and her husband by themselves. You know they liked to bring people back with them? Not very uncommon, but worthy of hiding from the press.” You took another sip of champagne. “I doubt I would’ve gotten in their bed if the husband was in it.”

“I didn’t know you didn’t like men.”

You paused, chased the champagne’s aftertaste for a moment. “Women are much more interesting to me,” you said, “but they aren’t you.”

Eve’s face turned slightly red and she chuckled. “So original.”

You procured the bag from your pocket and hung your coat over the kitchen chair. The small room was cozy, especially since the oven was still cooling down. You proffered it to her. “For you.”

“God, you don’t have to keep buying me things.” She accepted the bag anyway, reaching in and pulling out the perfume. Its box was red and had the outline of a rose on it. She pulled the vial from it, studied it. “A present from Geneva?” she asked.

“Put it on,” you said.

She sprayed it on her wrists and rubbed them together, then brought them to her throat and rubbed there too. You got up, knelt in front of her, leaned to her and inhaled. It was a strong perfume but not overpowering; just sweet enough. You kissed her there, tasting its tang while her hands settled on your shoulders.

“It’s not from Geneva,” you murmured. You moved to her mouth and kissed her, cupping her face between your hands. She sighed into it, like kissing you was relieving the day’s weights. “I think you worry about me, Eve.”

“Thinking about you isn’t the same as worrying.”

“Tell me what you think.”

“What makes you decide on a certain way you’re gonna kill someone, what you do after, whether or not they fought back…” She trailed off, rested her forehead against yours, took your hand and put it on her breast, holding it there. “Can’t you just take me to bed?”

Once there you undressed, your hands fighting Eve’s as they scrambled at clothes. They ended up a pile beside the bed and you pushed Eve onto it, straddled her, began to map her as had become your habit. You knew her well by now but always, you wanted to reacquaint yourself with her: the place behind her right ear that, when licked, made her inhale sharply; the curve of her shoulder that she didn’t mind you biting; her collarbones, her breasts, that spot on her hip she loved to have your teeth drag over, the taste of her.

“Jesus,” she gasped, holding you between her thighs.

“I think that’s your favorite word,” you said.

“It’s a reaction.” She threw her head back, her hands clenching your hair. Perhaps having you here felt like worship to her and she could say nothing else. Part of you was glad she never said your name when in ecstasy; that was Anna’s doing. There were very little similarities between the two of them and you didn’t need another added to the list. You dragged her closer, sucked harder, moved your fingers a little to the right. Eve cursed; you asked, “There?”

“Yes, yes, right there…”

This was, you thought now, how you told her you didn’t want to hurt her. Because if you did, things like this wouldn’t happen. You told her with your tongue and your fingers and your kisses that you couldn’t get enough of her, that you wanted to stay for as long as she told you to. You did this for an hour until she pulled your hand away with a soft groan.

“Stop,” she whispered, gasping. “God, I can’t go forever…”

“You had… me fooled,” you said, lying on your side, your arm thrown over her. She was boneless, her cheeks and her chest flushed in a way you found pleasant, sweat gleaming on her skin. You still wanted to taste it, wanted to see how it blended with the perfume.

Eve chuckled. “Your stamina is terrifying, you know.”

“I have to have good stamina.”

“For fucking people to death?”

“Or fourteen orgasms in one go but that too.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Her hands were probably dead.”

“Yes, my hands were.”

“You’re insane,” Eve said, but there was no hate behind it. She looked content, still in a state of bliss. You rested your head on her other pillow, breathing with her. You dragged your fingers over her skin, starting from the hollow in her throat and ending just below her navel, and all the way back up again. Your mind felt contented but still there were things you wanted to ask her, about work, about her life in America before she moved to England. You’d read it in her file long ago but hearing it from her mouth would be different.

“You’re thinking something,” you said, after many minutes of silence passed.

“I’m wondering if you miss people,” Eve said.

You cupped her left breast, felt her heart underneath your palm, its beat calmer. “No.”

“Even ones you were close to?”

Anna? Nadia? were the unasked questions. They were significant people, ones you once cared for, but their absences weren’t really felt. If they were, it was more like an irritating thorn in your side rather than a sharp pain in your chest, as some people, as Eve, described loss. You brushed her nipple with your thumb, replied, “No. But you miss people.”

“All the time.” She rolled over so that she was facing you and then she pushed onto your shoulders so that you were on your back and she straddled your waist, looking down at you. You put your hands above your head. “Bill would kill me if he knew I was seeing you.”

“The others too, I imagine.” Your skin tingled when she touched it. She liked touching you, always marveled at how soft you were. “You haven’t told them?”

“How can I?” she said.

Your heart twitched. You were a secret, her secret. A dark and thrilling one. “Kiss me, Eve,” you said. She did, and then she was inside you and you moaned, held onto her. She was there until you were useless, your legs trembling, staring up at her, beached. Instead of Leonid it was her that’d dragged you from the pool but drowning with her was pleasant. You told her, “I’m fine,” and she stroked your thighs while you breathed.

Later she brought you cinnamon bread and a glass of water. You ate it in bed.

“Tell me about Vienna,” you said.

“There isn’t much to tell,” Eve said.

“Tell me anyway.”

It was a start.


End file.
